


Of Contradictions and Syrupy Darkness

by cannibaljoke



Series: A Witch Second, but a Witch Always [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Allusions to cannibalism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Gen, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal is a god of death, M/M, Magic, Mythology References, Old Gods, Q is a witch, Witchcraft, all the gods are actually based on real gods, eve gareth bond and the old m are mentioned in passing, i have notes, literally a tiny mention of Mason, otherwise known as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-14 01:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11772270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibaljoke/pseuds/cannibaljoke
Summary: "At work, Q is known for having a fast mouth and a quick wit, but no one would ever think that Q’s interests go far, far beyond the reaches of science. (Although, perhaps it should not be so shocking, Vikings did consider mathematics to be magic after all.)"In other words, the AU where Q is a witch that you did not know you needed. And, you know, the AU where Hannibal is some dark, dark god (of which there are a few already and which I like a bit too much).





	1. Of Diving and Deep Ends

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own, feel free to correct them, because I might have missed a few typos. 
> 
> This AU was something that has been growing and evolving (and, arguably, becoming) in my brain for a while and I decided to get it out.

People can be numerous things all at once and most people are, sometimes unwittingly, oxymora. Very few people never contradict themselves. This could be because everyone can sometimes make irrational decisions or react irrationally in a state of great distress. Or, perhaps, it is human to be an oxymoron.

There are few people who know more of just how much a single person can contradict themselves than Q. Most things in Q’s life are contradictions, so one could argue that Q is an unpredictable person. Q will admit that he can be unpredictable, but he would argue that his contradictory nature has nothing to do with it. If anything, contradictions are predictable: everything Q does will be, at some point in the future, contradicted. 

Q’s work requires him to be a man of science, and of data, and of mathematics. He makes gadgets, assures that MI6 is as secure as possible, and very rarely ever has to deal with the bureaucracy, ass-kissing, and constant necessity to understand people’s behaviours that often goes on in other departments. One does not become a spy without some glibness or something like that, Q supposes. 

At work, Q is known for having a fast mouth and a quick wit, but no one would ever think that Q’s interests go far, far beyond the reaches of science. (Although, perhaps it should not be so shocking, Vikings did consider mathematics to be magic after all.) No one would believe that the Quartermaster of MI6 is more than slightly interested in the occult, in fact, most people would probably laugh if someone even suggested this. Shows how little they truly notice, Q would say if he had any intention of ever letting anyone he works with know of what he does in his free time. 

Q does not even truly try to hide it, the tiny sigils on all the gadgets and around Q Branch are fairly obvious, but people see what they want to and what they expect to (there’s a story of Native Americans not noticing a ship off the coast for months, because they did not believe it could be real, Q remembers). Not many people Q deals with on a daily basis believe in anything akin to witchcraft, Q is not sure if most of MI6’s employees believe in anything but lying back and thinking of England at all, but that is a train of thought to follow on some other day. 

The point is that magic does not require every single person involved to believe in it. 

Bond did not have to believe in anything when Q lit his candles, cast a circle, and called upon a god of old (but not without rolling his eyes, sighing, and getting over his temptation to leave Bond to whatever awaited him in the afterlife). 

Bond did not have to believe anything when Q made an unsavoury deal with a hungry god and made the god fetch Bond back from some deep, dark corner of the underworld. 

In fact, Bond did not even have to know that Q gave something up for him, because Q refused to train another pet agent to not break his gadgets or weapons (and because Q secretly cares, but he will never admit that). 

The only time Bond almost believed something before dismissing it as a hallucination was when he was faced with a pack of creatures that looked like they were made of fire and brimstone (and smelled like it as well) and whose only purpose in life appeared to be ripping other living things apart. The second he had described what he saw, Q had demanded to be put on speaker. Bond distinctly remembers one of the creatures screeching and Q chanting something (perhaps in Latin? Not that Bond paid it much mind after Q convinced him that it was all one big hallucination brought on by alcohol and exhaustion).

After that Bond sometimes almost believes that Q is not good at his job just because he is one of the best hackers in the entire world and dedicates most of his time to his job, that perhaps there is something more to it. 

Q is certain that the only person who perhaps knew about his extra-curricular activities was M. The old M. Bond’s M. She probably knew. She definitely looked at Q like she knew something. How she knew was a secret Q never did get to the bottom of, but Q’s gut feeling had been that she was something like him. 

The current M, though, Q assumes doesn’t know. Gareth Mallory. The new one. The one who will never be “just M” and always be “the new M” (at least until everyone who ever worked with the old M are dead or retired). Mallory is brilliant and a great leader, Q will admit (and will defend Mallory, if anyone ever dares to doubt him), however he does not have that thing that made the old M all-seeing (like Odin letting one of his ravens fly and see everything, and isn’t that just the most outrageous theory – the old M as Odin). 

When it comes to Moneypenny, Q knows that she knows something, because he knows that she is something. Not the kind of something that M was, Moneypenny is something hot and all-consuming like molten lava. Eve Moneypenny is, Q has thought, something much more dangerous and powerful than anyone can ever imagine, so Q is doing his best to avoid underestimating Moneypenny. 

A thing Q has realised is that while people who believe are hard to come by, gods and goddesses and things he does not deign label (suffice to say they are older than the world we know and will probably outlive our world as well) are not hard to come by. Although, perhaps this is logical, because the deities of old (for the most part) want attention and to be worshipped, so in today’s society they probably seek out positions in which they might be given attention and worshipped like in the old times. 

Having said that, it is very rare that Q meets one of the deities he has called upon in his day to day dealings. So, when he gets drunk on vacation in Italy, he is grossly unprepared for what he will encounter. 

In all honesty, Q is not sure why he is getting drunk anymore. He is fairly certain he had a reason when he had his first cocktail (a pink one, because imagine how insecure one would have to be to feel like the colour of their drink could undermine their masculinity) and that he probably remembered this reason around his fourth set of shots, but maybe there never was a reason. Except the ever-present reason of “why not”. 

All Q is sure of is that he needs a breath of fresh air, because he feels light-headed and uncomfortably close to throwing up, so he tells as much to the few people he is drinking with, and heads out. 

By the time Q makes his way through the writhing bodies and giggling groups of friends, he feels so sick that he barely makes his out of the door before he throws up… right on someone’s shoes. 

“Fuck,” Q says, staring at the shoes he just decorated with his vomit. The expensive shoes he just decorated with his vomit. 

“Oh God, no,” Q adds when it hits him that he will probably have to buy this person new shoes (or at least compensate the purchase of them), “I’m not rich enough for this.” 

“Rich enough for what, if I may ask?” someone asks and Q only barely does not fall over, because he almost forgot that there was a person attached to those pretty, expensive, and vomit-covered shoes.

Q finally looks at the owner of the shoes and comes face to face with someone as pretty as the shoes. Although, handsome might be a more accurate word, because the man is handsome in a dark and calm way (still waters run deep, Q thinks for some reason and cannot figure out why), and Q silently thanks himself that he did not throw up on the man’s leather jacket (or his trousers or literally anything else the man is wearing, because he looks like he is clothed in expensive and beautiful things), because that looks even more expensive than his shoes.

The man is also amused. Probably because, Q realises, he is almost gaping at the man and still has not answered him. 

Eventually Q gets the words out of his mouth: “For buying you new shoes.” 

Saying that also seems to have brought Q’s alcohol-addled brain out of the shock of seeing someone unfairly attractive and thrown him straight into being worried, and close to tears and panic. The joys of being an emotional drunk, some corner of Q’s brain remarks dryly. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Q mutters, almost folding in on himself and covering his mouth with a hand, eyes slowly filling with tears. He can feel panic rising in his chest, because if he cannot pay for the shoes then anything can happen to him.

If the man says anything, Q does not notice, he is too busy apologising and begging the man to understand that it was not his fault and that he wishes he had the money to pay for his shoes. 

Q is sure he has what constitutes as a minor panic attack, because the next thing he knows, he is on his knees on the ground with the man sitting next to him, cleaning his shoes. 

Q can still faintly hear the music from the club he came from and his breathing is still a bit too fast for comfort, but at least he does not have to focus on staying standing anymore and at least the man does not seem too terribly upset by the state of his shoes. 

“Do you feel better now?” Q is asked and to his surprise the man actually looks concerned. 

Q nods and the man smiles. He has a nice smile, a smile that makes his eyes crinkle and makes him look like someone Q could trust (this is also coincidentally something double-oh agents have to learn and something often used to disarm people, so Q, even in his drunk state, takes note and reminds himself to be careful).

“I did try to tell you that you don’t need to buy me new shoes or anything of the sort, but you were already panicking,” the man explains and Q feels himself flushing with shame.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” is Q’s eloquent response. 

Instead of getting annoyed like some people have, when Q’s bad habit of apologising profusely and unnecessarily when he is drunk, the man looks even more amused than before (like a cat that got the canary, and is that not a frightening comparison?) and rubs Q’s shoulder like he is a scared animal that needs to be soothed (perhaps he does). 

“I, I think I better get going,” Q says after a moment of looking at the man, not because he has something better to do than look at an older handsome man, but because he does not want to embarrass himself any further tonight. 

The man almost looks disappointed, his eyebrows draw closer together and he purses his lips for a second before asking: “Do you think you’ll be alright to walk?” 

Q shrugs and slowly stands. He smiles triumphantly when he does not immediately topple over and the man chuckles like Q is a child to be indulged. 

After Q proves that he can take a few steps without immediately falling over or tripping, the man offers to walk him to his hotel, which makes him politer than anyone else on whose shoes Q has ever thrown up. 

Walking back to the hotel with someone to keep him from tripping and falling is surprisingly nice. The night is warm and so are the man’s hands, which Q realises when the man tugs him back upright after he trips for the nth time and almost ends up being closely acquainted with the pavement.

There is something familiar about the man though, a familiar feel to him, for lack of a better explanation. 

The way Q can usually immediately tell the gods of old apart is exactly this feel, all of them have a different brand of darkness (at least the ones related to death are, Q does little business with others). Some have a cold darkness that resembles a sea in the winter, some have a warm and stifling darkness that almost chokes, some have a sweet and liquid darkness that feels like syrup, some have a darkness that resembles a fog, and the rest of the countless death-related deities have a specific darkness as well (sometimes Q feels sad, because he will probably not be able to experience all the different brands of darkness in his lifetime).

This man almost feels like the sweet syrupy darkness that a hungry god possessed, but Q reassures himself that it is just his imagination and that asking would just make him seem insane.

It would seem, however, that Q’s mouth does not always listen to his brain, because before he even realises it, Q has said: “You seem familiar, you know. Have we met before?” 

“If we have, I’m sorry for not remembering you,” Q adds after a beat, because drunken apologies are his thing, apparently. 

The man stops walking (forcing Q to do so as well) and smiles again, only this time it is not the nice smile he used before. This smile is sharp and dangerous. For a moment Q fears for his life and considers running, but the man has a hand on his back and another one wrapped around his wrist (besides, Q is drunk, he would not make it very far). 

“I’m surprised you recognised me at all,” the man says and he sounds more like the hungry god now and less like the charming older man Q met outside a club. 

Q stares straight ahead, watching the shadows getting darker despite it being night, almost like the shadows are trying to consume all the light. Q can almost picture waves of syrupy darkness coming to wash over him and the god to take them to whatever realm or corner of the universe is considered this god’s domain.

“Please,” Q whispers, unsure of what exactly he is pleading for, and feels himself starting to shake.

The god sighs, and runs his hand over Q’s right side (a reminder of what Q gave him for bringing Bond back to life, a reminder of how Q fed him). Q immediately squeezes his eyes shut, the shaking intensifying. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” is murmured a bit too close for comfort into Q’s ear, “I got everything I wanted from you already.” 

Q makes a quiet sound, somewhere between a whimper and a gasp, and opens his eyes. He turns his head, so he finds himself less than an inch away from the hungry god. 

The god smiles and Q finds himself smiling back out of habit (he mentally curses mirror neurons and everything they bring with themselves), albeit fearfully.  
And then Q is tugged along again, a hand on his back and a hand on his wrist, almost like nothing happened. The rest of the way to the hotel, Q is silent and keeps glancing at the god, trying to make sure if all of this is an elaborate hallucination or dream or really happening. 

At the hotel, Q is given a card and the god smiles nicely, telling Q to drink a lot of water and to sleep off the hangover he is inevitably going to have. Q nods numbly and afterwards watches the man leave before going inside to sleep (and, in the morning, to figure out what he will do with this new information about the hungry god). 

If this had been another god, Q might not be so keen to determine how to use this knowledge, but the hungry god was one Q has had to make a few deals with in the past and the price has always been especially high (or perhaps not, depending on what one is willing to give up, for a sex-repulsed person the hungry god’s prices might be considered more acceptable than sleeping with a god for a favour; perspective is everything, Q supposes). Q has always thought of how good it would be to be able to hold something over the god’s head and now he has a name, and there are very few things that Q cannot find out when he has a name. 

The hungry god has a name and it is Hannibal Lecter. 

Q’s last thought before falling asleep is, Hannibal Lecter as in the wanted cannibalistic serial killer Hannibal Lecter? 

That thought is followed swiftly by a muttered: “Oh, fuck.”


	2. Of Unideal Moral Compasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wandering aimlessly around the streets would feel less ominous, if Q was not a part of some cat and mouse game, where no one really knows who is the cat and who is the mouse (at least, Q thinks, he is lucky enough to be on almost everyone’s side)." 
> 
> Or the part where Q is lent to the FBI to find Hannibal Lecter and we circle back to Italy via a crooked path through new acquaintances.   
> In other (less pretentious) words, part two of setting the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, feel free to correct them, because I might have missed a few typos.

The next time Q sees Hannibal Lecter is a bit less unprompted than their chance meeting outside a club (although, is anything to do with gods ever truly unprompted or by chance?). 

Q is dragged to the United States of America, because is a bright mind and good at finding people, and because the FBI needs some help. 

At the airport, Q meets Special Agent Jack Crawford and is immediately given a file. It is a file on Hannibal Lecter, and Q almost sighs, because he already knows more than the FBI (which is also logical, because Q talked to Lecter two days ago, while the FBI has not had anything to do with him for a long, long time).

“Do you think you can help us find him?” Special Agent Crawford asks Q when they are sitting in Crawford’s car, driving towards the FBI headquarters. 

Q glances at him and knows that he should say yes, but he chooses to shrug and say: “I don’t know. I’ll have to try searching him to know that.” 

“Your M said you would be able to find him,” Crawford insists and Q gets the distinct feeling that Jack Crawford does not like to be disappointed (must have been quite a blow when Hannibal turned out to be a cannibal, Q’s mind remarks sardonically).

“I believe what he said was that I’m your best chance at finding him,” Q replies, doing his best to sound civil and friendly, “That said, I cannot perform miracles. I doubt I can find Hannibal Lecter, if he truly does not want to be found.” 

Crawford gives him a look like Q knows too much, like Q is suddenly suspicious. 

“Have you met him?” Crawford asks, turning into the FBI car park. 

Q considers being honest, but he also considers the repercussions of that and decides that he would rather be a liar than a suspect or, worse, an accomplice, so he responds with: “I have heard of him. He’s a rather hot topic right now.”

Crawford hums and off they go, into the FBI headquarters, where Q will inevitably be doubted and asked if he is as good as he claims to be (and where Q will have to resist the urge to warn Hannibal, because Q refuses to pretend to be bad at his job, especially when he knows exactly where to look). 

Q is introduced to many agents whose names and faces he memorises, but who do not mean much to him (Q knows hundreds, if not thousands, of people just like them in the MI6, all so similar and all such good workers, but just that, good and average). 

Q gets to use Crawford’s office as his and gets to set up all his things in there as well. Q suspects that this will allow Crawford to subtly keep an eye on him, because Q is a stranger, and while Q knows that he is good at seeming trustable, he also hopes that the FBI knows better than to trust someone because they seem nice.

This leads to Q spending more time with Jack Crawford and everyone who comes to see him than he would necessarily like, but Q will take new acquaintances over just staring at a screen for hours and hours any day. 

Q meets Doctor Frederick Chilton on a sunny Tuesday, when Frederick shows up to discuss something with Crawford and finds Q sitting at his desk. 

“Hello. I thought this is Jack Crawford’s office?” the man looks a bit surprised as he stands at the door, watching Q curiously.

Q finishes a line of code and saves his work (one can never be too safe is a lesson learned from experience, and tons of files being deleted because of carelessness) before looking at whoever was talking to him. 

“Ah, yes, it is. He’ll probably be right back, you can come in and wait for him, if you’d like,” Q explains, offering the man his best friendly smile (the same one he uses when there are annoying people from some department of the government doing audit or something at MI6). 

The man steps inside, closes the door after himself, and seats himself at one of the chairs at the other side of Crawford’s desk, a comfortable yet very beige looking chair. 

“I don’t think we’ve met before,” the man eventually says, when he seems to understand that Q is too busy writing something on his laptop to bother starting with introductions. “I’m Doctor Frederick Chilton, I work at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.” 

At that, Q looks up and shakes the hand the man offered him. “I’m Q. I work for the MI6, I’m currently being loaned to the FBI to find Hannibal Lecter.” 

This seems to make Frederick extremely interested and Q vaguely remembers Hannibal mentioning him once, but it had not seemed like Hannibal was particularly fond of Frederick. 

“Is that what you’re doing now?” Frederick asks.

Q blinks and glances at the screen, he was writing some code for a pet project, because a facial recognition software the FBI does not have access too is still running and he cannot do anything until he makes sure Hannibal has not been an idiot and made finding him extremely simple (Q would not put it past Hannibal, the god never has seemed like the type who would evade capture if being captured would assure a lot of attention, and a certain degree of worship and dominance).

“I suppose. Why? Are you particularly interested in finding him?"

“I’m particularly interested in finding out how his brain works after he is captured.” 

“Oh,” Q says, realisation dawning on him, “You think he will want to be pronounced insane.” 

“Do you not think he is insane?” Frederick counters (clearly a psychiatrist, Q thinks, already trying to pick Q’s brain).

Q shrugs. It is an honest answer, he truly does not know. He is not even sure a god can be insane, although he supposes that if gods are like people in many ways, then why cannot they be insane. Still, Q doubts that Hannibal is insane, he may not be completely sane, but Q is pretty sure he is not insane either.   
Chilton is about to ask something else, when Crawford shows up and greets him. Q is thankful, but also disappointed, because Frederick seemed like a somewhat intelligent conversation partner, even though he did seem a tiny bit obsessed with Hannibal. 

Miriam Lass is also someone Q meets, although she comes on a cloudy Friday and looks a bit like a frightened rabbit when she sees Q (didn’t hop fast enough, some dark corner of Q’s mind whispers when he looks at her prosthetic arm).

“I’m here to see Jack Crawford,” she says and Q briefly wonders if he looks like a secretary (he certainly feels a bit like one). 

Instead of being snide like he would, had this been the MI6, Q smiles and goes for a more friendly approach: “You just missed him. He said he’d be back very soon though.” 

“Is it okay if I wait for him here?” 

“Of course, make yourself at home,” Q tells her, gesturing towards the painfully beige chairs in front of Crawford’s desk.

“Are you the, um, MI6 agent here to find Lecter?” she asks when she has sat down, still looking skittish. 

Q laughs and shakes his head. “I’m hardly an agent. I am here to find him though.”

She looks concerned (rightfully so, Q supposes, he would not stand a chance against Hannibal, if Q had any intention of trying to hunt him down), but does not say anything. 

“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” Q says after opening a software of questionable legality to scan all security cameras and social media photos of Palermo for traces of Hannibal (Q knows Hannibal is there, knows that there has to be at least one picture of Hannibal, knows because Hannibal is a peacock and does like attention so very much),“I’m Q.”

“Miriam Lass,” she replies and Q nods politely, like he had not known that before already. 

It becomes quiet then, as Q types replies to emails about things that seem oh-so-trivial now (compared to man-eating gods and deals for souls, everything is rather trivial, Q supposes, especially some broken equipment). 

“You should be careful, you know,” Miriam says eventually. “Before him I didn’t believe anyone could be truly evil, but I think he might just be pure evil.”

Q tilts his head in consideration (true consideration for once, he has never pondered over whether Hannibal is evil, whether gods can inherently be evil, whether evil is not just a man-made concept based on an ideal moral compass). 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Q says with a grim nod, because someone who has not met Hannibal Lecter should keep that in mind (convenient that Q has already met him, inconvenient that Q has an unideal moral compass).

Q’s conversation with Miriam Lass ends there, not because Jack Crawford shows up, but because neither of them has anything else to say. Q keeps himself from offering her meaningless platitudes about Hannibal being captured soon (Q doubts any prison can truly keep Hannibal, and that anyone is ever truly safe from Hannibal, from drowning in the sweet darkness). Miriam seems to keep herself from warning Q further, probably hoping that Q is smart enough on his own.

About a week later, Q tells Crawford that he is almost certain that Hannibal is in Italy, in Palermo, and just like that Q is dragged along once again, except this time to Italy.

Back to where it all started, Q thinks as he and Jack Crawford make their way to their hotel.

Here Q can almost feel the syrupy darkness again, although that could just be his imagination, because he knows Hannibal is here. 

Crawford seems on edge and Q supposes he would be too, if he thought he was about to catch a dangerous serial killer that turns death into macabre art (but Q knows better and does not dare to underestimate Hannibal, he has seen the things the god can do).

“I’m going for a walk, I think,” Q says when it is already dark, but not too late to go out.

“Are you sure you’re not going to get lost?” Crawford asks, only half-joking, “I don’t think I’ll be awake for long enough to come find you.” 

Q offers a short laugh and shrugs. “I think I’ll manage, I’ve been here before,” he explains.

Briefly, Q wonders if that might have sounded suspicious, but Crawford just hums in response and tells him not to stay out too late.

Q leaves the hotel and it all feels so familiar (not quite like coming home, but almost like coming back to a hotel you have been visiting for years), and the feel of syrupy darkness in the air has gotten thicker. Perhaps Q had not imagined it after all. 

Wandering aimlessly around the streets would feel less ominous, if Q was not a part of some cat and mouse game, where no one really knows who is the cat and who is the mouse (at least, Q thinks, he is lucky enough to be on almost everyone’s side). 

He finds his way to the university and even past it, until he sees people walking back home from somewhere and the syrupy darkness becomes almost tangible (and if Q wanted to relax, then this was not where he should have walked, because his heart is beating too fast). 

“Oh, fuck,” Q whispers into the night air, because he can see Hannibal Lecter walking out of a building (and if Q saw him, then odds are, Hannibal already knew he was coming). 

And there it is, Hannibal looks straight at him and smiles, Q’s knees almost buckle and his heart feels like a bird trying to break out of his ribcage. 

“Q!” Hannibal is calling for him and gesturing for him to come over, and before Q can even think of running, he is going to him, to Hannibal and the gorgeous woman at his arm. 

“Doctor,” Q says, his smile a bit awkward, when he makes it over to them, “I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

The look on Hannibal’s face says that Hannibal did expect to see Q here and Q wonders if there is anything he can even do without Hannibal’s knowledge. The look on the woman’s face, though, is assessing, like she is trying to determine if Q is a threat, or a nuisance, or useful, or something else entirely.

“Q, this is my wife Bedelia,” Hannibal, ever the gentleman, explains, “Bedelia, this is Q, he’s a friend.”

Hannibal’s tone of voice insinuates that they are something more than friends though and it is clear that this makes Bedelia even more suspicious of Q (a distant part of Q’s brain reminds him that this is Bedelia du Maurier, and that Q found no marriage certificate in his search, so they are not really married). 

“I’d love to catch up with you. Would you be willing to come home with us for a drink?” Hannibal asks and Q knows he will be saying yes, because he will either say yes immediately or Hannibal will coerce it out of him.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Q mutters, looking at Bedelia more than Hannibal (Q sincerely doubts anything could ever truly impose on Hannibal, the sky could come falling down and Hannibal would still make his dinner and dress in his suits). 

Bedelia looks to be very close to rolling her eyes, but she does smile, so perhaps Q has managed to win her over, and she does say: “Don’t be ridiculous, we’d love to have you.” 

This leads to Q walking home with Bedelia and Hannibal, listening to them speaking about art and interjecting a comment or two, when asked. 

Their home is beautiful, but also filled with magical artefacts, much like Q’s, so Q is immediately curious as to whether Bedelia is something like him (she does feel like she is, but it could just be due to her spending so much time with Hannibal). 

Q is led to a gorgeous living room and given a glass of red wine before Bedelia excuses herself to get ready for bed and recommends Hannibal to follow her example soon. 

“Did you come here alone?” Hannibal finally asks, watching Q’s gaze dart from one rare object in the room to another.

Q nervously sips his wine (not enough alcohol to truly be liquid courage, Q reminds himself to avoid gulping it all down at once) and shakes his head: “No. Jack Crawford is here as well.” 

“Is he? And I thought you had just missed me,” is Hannibal’s reply. He does not seem bothered by this revelation (of course he knew, Q thinks, he probably knew before they even arrived in Italy). 

“I didn’t say I hadn’t missed you, Doctor,” Q points out, smiling at Hannibal over his glass of wine.

“You did miss me then?” 

Q shrugs and offers: “You have an addictive sort of darkness about you, I suppose I missed that.” 

“Are you certain it’s not your hybristophilia acting up, Q?” 

This time Q, finally, rolls his eyes and grins. “That would suggest that there is a chance of whatever relationship it is that we have turning into a sexual one, Hannibal.”

“Isn’t there such a chance?” Hannibal manages to almost sound disappointed. 

“You’re married,” Q says and finishes his glass of wine, “Besides, I wouldn’t trust you not to eat me whole.” 

Hannibal hums and he is suddenly closer than he was before, plucking the wine glass from Q’s fingers and leaning close to whisper: “As delicious as you are, it would be an awful waste to eat all of you at once.” 

Q shivers and throws Hannibal an incredulous look, taking a step back. “You’ve already got Will Graham and Bedelia, I doubt you need more love interests to push and pull around.” 

“Is that what you see yourself as? A love interest?” Hannibal asks.

“Is that not what I am?” Q counters.

Hannibal is close again, this time holding Q’s hands to keep him close.

“You’re the first worshipper I have had in centuries, you’re not a love interest. When worshipping gods like me was still popular and largely acceptable, people like you were considered the most powerful, the chosen ones who were closer to the gods than anyone else.” 

“Like a high priest?”

“In some religions people like that were called high priests, yes,” Hannibal agrees and looks satisfied that Q understands. 

“When I told you to come to bed soon, I didn’t mean that you should charm him in alongside you,” Bedelia remarks from where she is leaning against the doorframe.

Q had not even noticed her returns and he flushes with shame, his face reddening as he ducks his head and pulls back, away from Hannibal. 

“I have to get back anyway,” Q mutters, smiling apologetically as he pries his fingers away from Hannibal’s. 

“Or you could stay until the morning, Uncle Jack will hardly notice if you show up early enough,” Hannibal proposes.

Bedelia rolls her eyes and pushes at Hannibal’s shoulder gently, “Let the boy leave, if he wants. You’ll get to see him again.”

Q gives Bedelia a grateful smile, and for a split second he sees her as something other than the beautiful blonde woman she presents herself as (and Q realises that Bedelia is more like Hannibal than like Q, that she is something old and ever-lasting, something that has a different power than Hannibal, but just as much of it; he sees familiar rivers of wine, and laughter, and grapes, and insanity, all that Q knows a bit too well). 

“Before you go,” Hannibal says, when Q has finished starting at Bedelia in awe, and presses something into Q’s hand before leading him out of their apartment. 

At the door, Q gets one last piece of advice from Hannibal: “Leave, run if you must, before the carnage begins, because neither Jack nor Mason will let this end without a carnage. I will not lose you, because you did not know when to run.” 

When Q does not know how to reply to something like that, Hannibal forces him to meet his eyes and asks: “You will leave before the bloodshed. Understood?”

“Understood.” 

With that, Q is allowed to leave and he hurries back to the hotel. 

He falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow in his room, where Jack Crawford is sleeping soundly, but not before he looks at what Hannibal pressed into his hand. It is an amulet, a tiny black circle of an amulet that has the image of what can only be what Hannibal really looks like on it, a vaguely human-like head and shoulders and antlers growing out of the head. 

In the morning, Q tells Crawford how to find Hannibal, watches Crawford leave, clearly prepared to rip Hannibal apart. 

Q then sighs, packs his things, and does what Hannibal told him to, he leaves before the carnage. 

And it is a carnage that follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, I beg of you, give me feedback. 
> 
> Even if it's just one word or a simple "I kinda liked this". Please, I want to know what you think.


	3. Of Histories Untold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And this does seem to soothe and please her, because she smiles a smile that Q remembers from long lost nights of madness and pleasure (nights that Q has hidden from any prying eyes or fingers, nights that tell too much about who Q was before MI6, before he was Q)." 
> 
> Or Q and Bedelia have history and we explore that with fairly copious amounts of wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, feel free to correct them, because I might have missed a few typos.

Q informs the FBI that he did not feel safe in Palermo when he is already in Rome, when they cannot do anything but accept his decision, and accept his decision they do, albeit in a clearly reluctant way while almost dismissing Q’s ability to assess risks (look who’s talking, Q mentally remarks, you lot thought Hannibal Lecter was nice and good).

So, Q spends the next few days in Rome, going to museums he has been to before, and browsing through bookshops that exist in liminal spaces (looking for books on magic that has not been used for centuries and that most people believe should never be used again). Soon enough, the worn desk at his small hotel room ends up almost entirely covered with stacks of books, both magical and normal (because herbs are something non-magic folk use as well, and just because someone does not practice magic does not mean their knowledge on herbs is useless or redundant). 

Q also spends more time in cafés than he ever has before, mostly because people-watching is entertaining, and partly because it is a great way to subtly ward his hotel (because warding takes time and requires a rather large handful of sigils, and it would just look very conspicuous and suspicious, if Q just walked around his hotel, doodling things and mumbling words that makes no sense). 

Another advantage of sitting in cafés a lot is getting to feel the city. Cities, much like gods, have specific feels to them (not in the way the rhythm of every city is different, that much is obvious to even the most inattentive and magic-distant person in the world, in the way that most cities have some magic in them). Some cities smell of old magic and ancient sacred rituals, a bit like one might be able to smell a bakery from far, far away (old magic, to Q at least, smells a bit like sweet pastries, but with a strange, somewhat bitter and dark aftertaste); some cities smell of tragedies and burning flesh and the distant screams of innocents being accused of sorcery are still audible when one listens very carefully; some cities smell of secret rituals and something festering just beneath the surface (this usually comes accompanied by a faint scent of brimstone, because things rarely ever fester without a little help from below); some cities smell of sea salt and the magic of the shipbuilders and warriors of old (in these places, usually, one can meet people with eyes that belong to those who have died and been born again only to know the end is coming, people who have climbed the world-tree and know they will have to climb it again). And then there are the countless other ways a city can smell of magic. Q has already come to terms with his life being too short for him to visit every place in the world, so he cannot possibly know every single way magic might smell in a city.

Having finished checking on his wards, Q makes his way back to his hotel. He has footage from Palermo to check. Admittedly, surveillance footage and CCTV are rarely any help when dealing with gods, but Q knows a few spells (that may be partly derived from magic that should have been locked in vaults and never used again, because gods do not like magic that can be used against them). Q also refuses to let something like what gods do or do not like get in the way of him doing his job (he is the quartermaster first, a witch second, and maybe a worshipper of a few choice deities third). 

This leads to Q flicking his way through CCTV footage from Palermo. Empty streets at night are hardly interesting to anyone, witch or not, but Q knows what he is looking for. 

There, Q thinks, as he watches the shadows grow lighter (just a bit, probably unnoticeable for anyone who does not know to look for it). Hannibal is not in Palermo anymore, which means one of two things, he either got Will Graham to elope with him, or Hannibal is playing a different game than Q thought (or, maybe, Hannibal was playing multiple games at once, seeing which one turns out to be the most amusing). 

The problem with Hannibal, Q realises as he closes his laptop, is not that he is hard to find, but it is that he is hard to keep. Hannibal comes and goes as he pleases, and even if it seems like he is cornered and doing something he does not want to, he is always in control (he pretends to have blind spots and weaknesses, so he can go along with other people’s plans and plots just to watch them fail). The problem with Hannibal is that he is always ten steps ahead of everyone else (which makes it about six steps ahead of Q, because Q knows a bit more than the FBI, and were Q in the same boat as everyone else, he would have been on the menu when he first met Hannibal). 

“Ugh,” Q says to the empty room, because this all smells of a Machiavellian plot that will end with rivers of blood in the moonlight (like syrupy black rivers that flow forever and carry with them a frightening memory of betrayal and love stories fit for legends). 

Just as Q is about to work himself up and start to worry about surviving, there is a knock at the door.

“I have wine. You better let me in,” the person behind Q’s door says and Q is flooded with relief.

He opens the door and there stands Bedelia du Maurier, in a lovely red dress, with a bottle of wine in one hand and wine glasses in the other (an unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome surprise).

“Come in,” Q tells her, smiling as he moves out of the way to allow her inside. 

She steps inside and Q can feel something shift in the air around them (she is strengthening the wards, he realises a moment later, probably because she knows someone might have followed her here). 

“You look different now, I almost didn’t recognise you,” Q says when she is pouring the red wine into the glasses. 

Bedelia smiles. “You didn’t, at first. I was afraid you might have lost your sharpness.” 

“That Hannibal might have dulled me? I thought he was the one sharpening everyone around him and encouraging them to kill?” Q replies, because this is familiar ground. 

“True, but I might have thought that perhaps you have gotten careless. Too used to having a big bad god out there to eat your foes.” 

She holds out one of the glasses for him and as he takes it, he says: “I’m sure he’s more interested in eating _me_.” 

“Don’t underestimate how highly he thinks of his new high priest,” Bedelia retorts, swirling the wine in her glass elegantly, but her smile gets tight around the edges, some disdain evident on her face. 

“Are you jealous?” Q asks, but he already know that the answer is yes, so he adds as a balm: “There’s no need to be. You’ll always be my first, Bedelia.” 

And this does seem to soothe and please her, because she smiles a smile that Q remembers from long lost nights of madness and pleasure (nights that Q has hidden from any prying eyes or fingers, nights that tell too much about who Q was before MI6, before he was Q). 

“There was quite a mess in Palermo,” Bedelia points out, changing the subject and Q knows he is forgiven (the “this time” and “for now” hang heavy in the air between them though). “Jack Crawford almost killed Hannibal. Or he would have, was Hannibal mortal.” 

Q takes a sip from his glass before asking: “Did Hannibal also almost kill Jack?”

Q figures he would have gotten a call or an email, had Hannibal actually killed Crawford, so the remaining options are that Crawford got away unscathed (but Hannibal would never let that happen) or that Crawford got away but just barely. 

“Jack will be back in working order and ready to go back to America soon enough.” 

The look Bedelia accompanies that statement with tells Q that his brief break is over and that he is about to be pulled deeper into Hannibal’s schemes (like being pulled deep underwater, Q just hopes he will know which way is up when it is all over). 

Taking a large sip of his wine, Q sighs: “I’m assuming that’s also where Hannibal went?” 

“He went on a roadtrip with Will Graham and Mason Verger’s men, so, yes, I’d wager he’ll be in back in America soon, if he isn’t already,” Bedelia replies, clearly unbothered (Q wonders if it is because she knows Hannibal will survive or because she truly does not care what happens).

“Here’s to hoping that they know how to clean blood off hardwood floors at the Muskrat Farm,” Q quips mockingly and raises his glass. 

Bedelia returns the toast with a smirk. 

When they finish the bottle it is dark outside, and Q’s head is on Bedelia’s lap of red with her fingers combing through his hair (like good old times, a part of Q’s alcohol-soaked brain remarks, like the good old times before Q started messing with death and long before Q crossed paths with Hannibal Lecter). 

Q is sure he says some embarrassing things, but he remembers none of them in the morning. Q is also sure that Bedelia laughs and whispers something about how she was, centuries and centuries ago, worshipped at celebrations where blood and wine flowed as one, and how Q has a type (how this type is an unhealthy one, and how Q should be careful when putting his fingers through holes in cages lest someone take a bite of his flesh). 

Q does not remember when he falls asleep, but he wakes on the floor and finds a plane ticket on the floor next to him. It seems, Q thinks as he rubs his eyes, that he is going back to Baltimore today. 

A few hours later, Q is sitting on a plane, next to Bedelia du Maurier, drinking wine again. It does not feel like a disaster waiting to happen, going back to Baltimore that is, but it does not feel like the road to safety either (Q thinks that if he had used tarot cards today or the day before, he would have probably pulled out the Tower at least once and the cards would have probably thrown something useless like the Lovers in there as well, just to be annoying). 

Back in Baltimore, Jack Crawford is not too pleased with Q, partly because Q took off without informing Crawford, and partly because Q showed up on Bedelia du Maurier’s arm, smelling faintly of wine. Q gets a lecture from Crawford, but is luckily a bit too drunk to listen to most of it (he has heard all of it before anyway, he has done things like this with the MI6 too and M has been significantly louder in expressing his displeasure). 

The next day, when Q is sober, Crawford tries to subtly interrogate him (not that he is very subtle about it, but at least Q gets to sit in Crawford’s office and not an interrogation room). Q finds this more amusing than anything else, because Q may seem like a harmless technician, who does nothing but sit behind a computer screen and push buttons to make someone else pull triggers, but Q has been trained to withstand interrogation (and Q regularly converses with manipulative deities, which is better practice for interrogations than any training that MI6 can provide).

“Did you know Doctor du Maurier prior to meeting her in Rome?” Crawford asks, not even bothering to beat around the bush.

“No. I met her in Rome, when she showed up at my hotel.” 

“Do you know how she found you?” 

“No.”

And Crawford does not like this answer, because he looks angrier than before. “I thought you were supposed to be the brightest mind MI6 has?”

Q does not take offense, but he does have to put considerable effort into not rolling his eyes. 

“Brightest mind or not, I cannot tell you what I don’t know,” Q replies diplomatically.

Crawford deflates a bit and continues with less bludgeoning questions, feeling blindly around Q’s past, trying to get Q to confess to knowing Hannibal or Bedelia before coming to help the FBI. And while Crawford insists that he just wants to know the truth, Q sincerely doubts that Jack Crawford will ever be prepared for the truth (Q also doubts that Jack Crawford will know the truth before he is six feet under, face to face with a god of death, perhaps even Hannibal himself). 

In the end, Q gives Crawford exactly nothing new to work with and is allowed to roam relatively free, but advised to not leave town.

Time to wait again, Q supposes and hopes the wait will not be as long as it was in Rome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think of this AU. Please, please, please.
> 
> Just one word or one sentence is enough, I promise. I just want to know what you think. Feed me feedback, please!


	4. Of Underwhelming Underwear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For most people, sitting in a lovely pastel-coloured diner and talking about people dying in various gruesome ways would be a fairly surreal experience (something out of a fever dream or a strange somewhat prophetic nightmare). Although, admittedly, dealing with someone like Hannibal Lecter, as a god or as a cannibalistic serial killer (both are quite terrifying and unusual, even compared to other deities), is surreal nightmare fuel for most people anyway, no need for pastel-coated conversations about gore."
> 
> Or Q meets Will and they bond over an unusual topic, and Hannibal gets more screen time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, feel free to correct them, because I might have missed a few typos.

The following two days are probably one of the busiest in Q’s life (not counting the one, where a god made a bloody mess in Q’s living room and Q’s parents were coming to visit the next day, Q has never before or after cleaned as fast as he cleaned that day), they are days filled with paperwork and giving statements and looking as harmless as ever.

Hannibal does surrender to the FBI, which should be great, but Q knows better and judging by the look on Will Graham’s face, so does he. 

The only good thing about Hannibal’s surrender is that Q gets to meet Will Graham. And Q does like Will Graham, because he is sharp and intuitive and has every potential for being very powerful, should someone teach him how to use magic (and most gods are not the best at teaching magic, so perhaps this is why Hannibal wants Q around; Q figures he would not be averse to teaching Will, he seems bright enough).

Why exactly Q ends up sitting on a table with a cup of tea in his hands and watching Hannibal being undressed while all his belongings are catalogued as evidence is beyond him. Why he ends up doing it with Will Graham sitting next to him is even more beyond Q at this point (one possible explanation is that it is currently four in the morning, Q was literally dragged out of his bed, and this is the one of the few corners of the building where people are not gossiping about Hannibal). 

Silently, Q thanks all the deities listening (which probably also includes Hannibal, but oh well) for one-way mirrors, because Q is fairly certain that Hannibal can read lips, so he would not be particularly pleased, if he knew that Q was commenting on his underwear.

“I expected something silk and with a paisley print, to be honest,” is what Q says, sipping his tea quietly. 

Will looks at Q like he had forgotten that Q was here. “What?” 

“His underwear,” Q specifies, nodding towards where Hannibal is obediently giving his fingerprints to a couple of absolutely terrified FBI agents, “I expected his underwear to be silk and with a paisley print. Or at least one solid colour and monogrammed.” 

And Q knows that they will get along just fine when Will does not look offended or put off, instead Will almost smiles (perhaps partly also because Q looks harmless, and his accent makes anything sound at least a bit intelligent, or at least humorously dry or dryly humorous).

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” Will says after a while of staring at Hannibal (who is rather shameless, Q must admit) and Q quietly sipping his tea. 

“You haven’t. I’m being borrowed from the MI6, I helped Jack track down Doctor Lecter in Italy,” Q explains.

“Oh.” 

And this time Will looks at Q in a more assessing manner that resembles Hannibal quite a bit (probably more than Will knows, Q thinks).

“How did you know to get out of Palermo?” 

Now, it is Q’s time to be confused: “Sorry, what?” 

“Mason’s men showed up at the hotel about ten minutes after you took off, they trashed the room you and Jack were staying at. They would have probably killed you.”

“Ah,” Q responds, eloquent as ever and mentally reminds himself to thank Hannibal when he gets the chance (probably once this all is over, Q thinks, because it is definitely not over yet).

“You didn’t say how you knew when to run,” Will points out and Q looks at him for a moment too long as he figures out whether to be honest. 

In the end, Q subtly draws a sigil onto the table he is sitting on, whispers words into his cup of tea as he pretends to take a sip, and watches the cameras (and any other surveillance equipment there might be) in the room turn themselves off. 

“I was warned,” Q eventually says, and when Will raises his eyebrows, imploring for further explanation, Q meaningfully tilts his head towards Hannibal on the other side of the glass. 

Realisation dawns on Will’s face and it is like the sun rising over the mountains, everything lights up, the whole visible world becomes colourful. Although Will is still suspicious and clearly unsure of whose side Q is on (if only Q himself knew, he feels like everyone has a separate side and he is currently trying to be make sure that he comes out of this in one piece, no matter who wins). 

“And you trusted him?” Will sounds like he would not have trusted Hannibal (and were Q Will, he would not have trusted Hannibal either, but Q is not Will). 

Q shrugs and tilts his head back to swallow the last sip from his cup. 

“I had no reason not to,” Q replies eventually. 

A regular FBI agent might ask if Hannibal being a serial killer or cannibal was not reason enough to distrust him, but Will Graham is not a regular FBI agent, so he does not ask. 

“What happened at the Muskrat Farm?” Q asks, because if Will gets to know one of his secrets, he might as well get to know one of Will’s. 

A subtle look of what might be fear (but might also be murderous thoughts directed at Q) crosses Will’s features, so Q rushes to add: “Jack knows exactly as much as you told him about what happened.” 

Q conveniently forgets to add that this is mostly because both Q and Bedelia spent what must have been at least two hours each dodging Crawford’s questions and making Crawford run in figurative circles (literal ones would have been more fun, but Q will take what he can get) without telling him anything about where Hannibal might have gone (this was easier on Q’s part, he just got to pretend he knew nothing). 

Will must have deigned Q something (foolish, useful, or something else like edible or smart) enough to trust, because he does eventually tell Q what happened. He also insists on talking about it somewhere less filled with people keen on eavesdropping. 

This leads to Q sitting across the table from Will Graham at a small diner somewhere in Baltimore. Definitely not the worst place Will could have picked.

For most people, sitting in a lovely pastel-coloured diner and talking about people dying in various gruesome ways would be a fairly surreal experience (something out of a fever dream or a strange somewhat prophetic nightmare). Although, admittedly, dealing with someone like Hannibal Lecter, as a god or as a cannibalistic serial killer (both are quite terrifying and unusual, even compared to other deities), is surreal nightmare fuel for most people anyway, no need for pastel-coated conversations about gore. 

The fact that Q can sip on a milkshake (which he bought because he has no self-control and an uncontrollable sweet tooth) and Will can eat a slice of pie during this conversation probably speaks of an unhealthy level of detachment from whatever horrors Hannibal creates on both Q’s and Will’s part. It is probably more worrying that Will does not seem to care that Hannibal slaughtered people at the Muskrat Farm with little to no remorse, than it is that Q is unbothered by it. Q’s indifference stems from years of working for the MI6 and his misadventures while practicing magical rituals that are a bit frowned upon in most magical circles, however Will’s indifference stems directly from Hannibal (almost like kintsugi, but instead of gold, black sludge that looks a bit like almost congealed blood is used to fix the teacup, Q thinks, is the best description to what Hannibal is doing to Will). 

So, Q listens and enjoys his milkshake, because what else is there to do. Q listens to how Will is certain at least half of what he saw was either a hallucination or a dream he had when he passed out from the blood loss. The skin as black as night and antlers that Will describes resemble the little amulet Q has hanging on a string around his neck (carefully hidden underneath his t-shirt, of course, because Q does not want any attention from other magic users, and a strange amulet is a definite way to attract unwanted attention from all things magical). 

About half an hour later, Will has finished with his description of what he believes is a mixture of his imagination and reality (his imagination having created a significantly larger percentage of it, as Will believes) and Q has made a mental note not to end up on Hannibal’s bad side, because (according to Will) he had no problem reaching into a man’s chest cavity and ripping his heart out, or meticulously pulling out every single internal organ from the bowels to the lungs, just because he can.

Afterwards, when Q has slurped up the last of his milkshake and made Will look exasperated (as if he is shocked that someone like Q could be anything akin to a friend to Hannibal), Will is nice enough to drive Q to his hotel and to give him his number.

“In case something happens,” Will says (but Q is sure that both he and Will know that there is exactly one thing that might and probably will happen). 

Q smiles politely and thanks Will for everything before going inside to his small room and to his laptop. 

For most of the following day, Q sleeps and then in the afternoon replies to some emails (and tells his subordinates back at Q Branch to tell Bond he is being ridiculous and he will never get another Aston Martin, not after what happened to the last one). Everything seems to be going well and Q even gets a call from Crawford that promises that Q might get to go home soon and Q almost believes it will really happen, but only almost, because he can feel something coming (it is like the quiet before the storm, a swelteringly hot day before a heavy downpour, a banshee’s cry before someone dies).

And something does happen (the storm arrives, the downpour comes and fills the gutters and drains, the person dies). It happens at night, because of course it does (Hannibal might have dressed like a well fed social butterfly, but he is more of a moth, Q thinks to himself). 

Q’s phone rings at a few minutes past eleven and he turns off the late-night talk show he was watching before he answers. 

“Good evening, Agent Crawford,” Q says, rubbing his eyes, because he knows that if Crawford is calling he will not be getting much sleep anytime soon.

“I need you to get here right now,” is Crawford’s reply and even over the phone, Q can tell the man is rattled. 

“Why? What happened?” 

“Lecter got out,” Crawford says and clearly would have explained further, had everything around Q not gone dark and his phone suddenly lost signal. 

Q makes an annoyed sound and gets out of bed (and quietly grumbles about how this is not something he should be doing in his pyjamas). He opens the door to his room and, yes, the whole hotel is dark, which is inconveniently dramatic and has Hannibal written all over it. 

It becomes even more unavoidably obvious that Hannibal is right here, when Q hears a scream from somewhere down the pitch-black hallway, followed by what can only be what being disembowelled sounds like. 

A rational reaction, Q supposes, would be to turn the other way and run for it (not that he thinks he can outrun Hannibal, not that he even wants to try), what Q does, however, is walk towards wherever the scream came from. He finds a woman, with some of her internal organs on the floor and pools of what is probably blood, but looks more like particularly runny tar on the floor under her and around the rest of the room. 

“Fuck,” Q says, because that appears to be his general reaction to all things Hannibal-related lately. 

A disembodied chuckle follows Q’s reaction and Q is fairly certain that he jumps about a foot into the air, resulting in one of his feet ending partly up in one of the pools of blood, which makes Q flinch and almost jump again. 

“Shouldn’t you be going after Will Graham or something?” Q asks once he feels a bit less like hyperventilating (and curling up into a small ball and refusing to deal with anything ever again, because he feels vaguely traumatised). 

“Did you expect me to just let you go?” comes the question from somewhere behind Q and Q makes a noise that he will forever refuse to admit was a whimper. 

“I-,” Q starts and stops on the same breath when he turns around, because for a second he thinks he sees what Hannibal looks out of his person suit and it is utterly terrifying (and magnificent and Q feels like Hannibal is so much older than he initially thought, and that is a truly frightening thought, Q has never dealt with anything this ancient). 

“You?” Hannibal prompts, all human and smiling in a way that currently annoys Q endlessly. 

“I think I was going to say something witty about the red string of fate,” Q confesses, then gathers his wits and adds: “But with you, it’s more like a red chain of fate, isn’t it?” 

Something flashes in Hannibal’s eyes and for a horrifying moment Q thinks he is about to end up with Hannibal’s teeth in his throat. 

“What would I need the red string of fate for, when I’ve got this?” as he says this, Hannibal tugs the string holding his medallion around Q’s neck (distantly Q realises that hands that have ripped people apart and created countless beautiful displays of horror are dangerously close to his neck). 

“So, it is a collar after all?” Q asks, moving closer to Hannibal (not because he is flirting, Q tells himself, but because the darkness that is heavy in the air around Hannibal is incredibly easy to get addicted to). 

And the hand that was already so very close to Q’s neck wraps around his throat (in a mercifully loose grip though) as Hannibal tilts his head in consideration. 

Eventually (when the syrupy darkness around them almost feels tangible), Hannibal says: “I hadn’t intended it as one.” 

“But the thought of it as one does please you,” Q says, not needing to ask to confirm his suspicion, because Hannibal is a possessive god (and Hannibal does love to own pretty things, Q thinks, just look at his home, the one in Palermo or the one he had in Baltimore, just look at Will Graham). 

Hannibal leans closer and for one hopeful moment Q thinks that Hannibal might kiss him, but then he hears distant sirens and he is filled with dread (remember what happened to Will Graham in Hannibal’s kitchen, a part of Q’s brain whispers, he did not die, but he did not exactly come out whole either).

Q tries to pull away, but the grip around his throat tightens and Hannibal wraps his other arm around Q’s middle (like a dazed bug in a spider’s web, noticing the danger too late, when the cocoon is already made). Q struggles, pushing at Hannibal’s chest, but freezes when he feels Hannibal’s lips against his ear.

“Trust me. Don’t resist, just trust that I would not let anything bad happen to you,” Hannibal murmurs. 

And for one horrible moment, when Q’s heart feels like it is about to beat out of his chest, before the darkness swallows everything, Q thinks about (but never gets to saying it, the darkness comes too quickly) quipping that it is not like has anything better to do at this point.

The darkness feels like being submerged in a black, bottomless sea, Q cannot breathe and every time he tries it feels like breathing in seawater, Q cannot move and every time he tries it feels like he is being weighed down by miles of water above him. 

And then. Then he is being pulled out of this sea of endless darkness where light does not even begin to breach the surface, he is being pulled up and out, and he can almost breathe.

And then. Then Q wakes up. He did not expect to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to get some feedback, it feeds my soul. 
> 
> Please comment, it doesn't have to be long, one or two words is okay too! I just want to know what you think.


	5. Of Ends Untied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Time is a funny thing when walking in woods like this, Q decides, it seems to stop and run forward at an unbelievable speed at the same time. He looks up and watches the last of the sun’s rays disappear. Now, everything is filled with darkness and Q can feel things starting to move (he can hear the laughter from parties not meant for mortal eyes or ears; he can smell the tell-tale scent of old rituals, of blood and honour, and of not screaming as one’s lungs are ripped out lest one loses their chance to drink with the gods)."
> 
> Or Q goes on a road-trip and things come to what might be called an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, feel free to correct them, because I might have missed a few typos.

Q does not expect to wake up, but that is not to say he expected not to wake up either. While floating in that limbo of eternal darkness, Q did not expect anything. In fact, Q did not even think of anything. Whatever that place was, Q thinks it felt peaceful, it felt like nothing and everything all at once (it felt like the sea from which the world-tree grew, but also like the chaos from which titans and gods were born, it felt permanent and yet ever-changing). 

Q did not expect to wake up, but he does wake up. 

He does not stay awake for a long time, the first time he wakes up. Q is awake for just long enough to be confused about where he is, and to try and sit up, which is followed by an incredibly intense pain and people telling him to lie back down. Soon after, Q falls asleep again. 

When Q is finally lucid for longer than a few minutes, he finds out that Hannibal left that night (and took Will with him, much to Jack Crawford’s displeasure and exactly no one’s surprise), when he left a bloodbath behind at the hotel and Q was found cut open, almost dead on the floor. 

A few weeks later, Q is on his way back to England, a kidney lighter and with a wound that will surely scar in the shape of Hannibal’s teeth on his forearm (as if a collar was not enough to assert ownership, Q thinks with a roll of his eyes, Hannibal needed to put a more permanent mark on him). 

Q realises that he should, perhaps, care about what happens to Jack Crawford and his hunt for Hannibal Lecter (like Captain Ahab and Moby Dick, except the leg the whale bit off is Will Graham, or perhaps Miriam Lass’ arm), when he steps back into his small home. A moment later Q decides that he does care, just not about Jack Crawford (let him hunt his whale, if the whale does not drown him, his obsession will, Q has seen it before and will see it again). 

After finding out what happened to him (and the subsequent worried glances and people treating Q like glass), MI6 (or, more specifically, M) allows Q to take a vacation, to calm his nerves and recover. Were Q anyone else, calming his nerves and recovering is exactly what he would do, but Q is Q, so Q packs his bag (he only needs one for this trip) and sets off. 

Q spends most of the following days on trains, reading the news and reading books he brought back from Rome, he also does a healthy amount of staring out of the window and looking at the passing buildings, trees, rivers, lakes, and everything else. 

Q knows he is in the right place even before he steps off the train when it stops in the middle of nowhere, deep in the woods, surrounded by tall, tall trees (mostly fir trees, Q notes). Q knows, because the darkness is darker here and the other people who step off the train are instinctively trying to find the speediest way out of the woods (these are not the woods where people go to pick berries or mushrooms, these are the woods from whose bourn no traveller returns). 

Stopping at the small kiosk at the station, Q buys himself a bar of chocolate and a bottle of water, earning a strange look from the woman working at the kiosk and a warning about missing hikers and strange creatures in the woods. Q assures her that he will be fine, offers to make a bet with her that he will return in a week or two. She declines politely (but the look on her face speaks of how she has understood that the horrors in the forest are familiar for Q, it speaks of how Q is not the first practitioner of his craft that she has seen). 

Then, Q sets off. Into the deep dark woods he goes, and takes a deep breath, trying to distinguish where the darkness feels the most syrupy-sweet. Q is not too worried about making it anywhere before the dark, so he unwraps his bar of chocolate and begins walking (hidden places in the woods are rarely ever revealed in the light of day, the ancient trees are seldom keen on unveiling their secrets when unwanted eyes might be looking). 

Time is a funny thing when walking in woods like this, Q decides, it seems to stop and run forward at an unbelievable speed at the same time. He looks up and watches the last of the sun’s rays disappear. Now, everything is filled with darkness and Q can feel things starting to move (he can hear the laughter from parties not meant for mortal eyes or ears; he can smell the tell-tale scent of old rituals, of blood and honour, and of not screaming as one’s lungs are ripped out lest one loses their chance to drink with the gods). 

Q pulls his thick cardigan tighter around himself and continues to walk, stopping every once in a while to see if he is indeed going in the right direction. Q walks for what feels like ages in the darkness, he can see things in the darkness (things he has only ever read of in books that most witches do not dare to touch) assessing him, scenting the air perhaps, seeing if Q smells like prey. 

Eventually, Q stops and looks at the burning eyes staring at him from the darkness. The eyes blink and Q smiles. 

“I think I need your help,” Q says in a language he has not used in years and watches the creature consider him. 

Q watches the creatures and the creature watches him. And then the creature moves forward (Q cannot see what it looks like, other than a vague mass of black, like a cloud of darkness that moves and changes shape as it pleases, sometimes small, sometimes Q’s height, sometimes huge like a wolf preparing to eat the moon). 

“You probably know who I’m looking for,” Q tells the creature and for a moment the creature looks to be amused. 

The rest of the way, Q follows an ever-changing creature of darkness. When they reach a house (a rather normal looking house, nothing like a witch’s cottage in the fairy tales or anything like that; a big and rather modern looking building that would look better in the richer neighbourhoods of Baltimore), the creature stops before it touches the light coming from the windows of the house. 

Q stops next to it and says: “Thank you.” 

Just for a second, the creature moves and wraps itself around Q and Q is enveloped by a warm, furry-feeling darkness. And then the creature rushes off, back to wherever it came from (and Q feels like he now owes a creature from the deep dark corners of the universe something he does not quite understand the value of yet).

Stepping forward into the light, Q takes one last look back into the darkness of the woods, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. 

Everything goes very still when Q knocks, as if the whole forest is waiting to see what will happen (whether Q will be eaten or invited in, whether Q is a friend or an enemy), but the moment the door opens, everything starts moving again. 

“Well, this is an unexpected surprise,” Hannibal says, watching Q from the door, a white apron on and looking exactly like Q remembers seeing him in pictures from his days as a psychiatrist.

Q looks mostly unimpressed, but does smile as he retorts: “As if I could do anything without your knowledge.” 

Hannibal smiles and steps out of the way, allowing Q to enter. The house, Q realises, looks almost identical to the one Hannibal had in Baltimore, except it feels more like a home and less like a mausoleum waiting for the dead to be brought in (and Hannibal did bring in the dead, Q thinks sardonically, he brought in dead after dead after dead, and they all went into his freezer). 

Q’s bag is taken from him and put into the closet in the hallway before Q is led into an unfairly beautiful sitting room. There are rows and rows of books, a lit fireplace, and the most lovely armchairs and sofa (if there is a Heaven, then for Q, it must look like this, Q finds himself thinking and the irony of that does not go over his head). 

“Hello,” Q says and Will Graham looks up from the book he was reading, sitting comfortably in the armchair closest to the fireplace (looking more comfortable and at peace than he was when Q talked to him at that diner).

“Oh, hello,” Will replies somewhat awkwardly.

Hannibal chooses that moment to excuse himself, saying he was in the middle of cooking dinner when Q knocked.

Q watches Hannibal leave the room before sitting down in the armchair, near the one Will is occupying. 

“So, is it safe to say that you know now?” Q asks, because he might as well.

“About gods and magic? Yes,” Will sighs, closing the book and looking at Q. “I don’t understand most of it though.” 

“If you think I understand, you’ll be disappointed,” Q points out and smiles almost apologetically, Will returns the smile as Q adds: “I mostly go with the flow and dabble in things I shouldn’t.” 

“Is that why you’re one of the most powerful witches around?” 

This truly surprises Q, his eyebrows rise and he blinks a couple of times. Q is fairly certain he can feel his cheeks heating up (it is not often that he receives any praise for his craft).

“I am?” Q eventually asks. “Did Hannibal say that?” 

“He said he hasn’t seen anyone as young as you use old magic without years of practicing first,” Will says, then smiles awkwardly. “Whatever that means.” 

Q chuckles and shrugs. “I think that’s just a nice way of saying that I poke and prod ancient things that should not be disturbed.” 

“Ancient things like Hannibal?” Will asks (and he means it as a joke, but Q thinks that he has so much potential, if he can already tell Hannibal is ancient).

“Oh, I wish I had something to poke and prod him,” Q quips back. “It’s mostly been him poking and prodding me, I think.”

“You don’t seem too bothered by it.”

“Hannibal is strange, even for a god,” Q says and this makes Will chuckle softly. “But once you get past the eating people part, he’s more cooperative than most other gods. Or, at least, he has been with me.” 

“I do hope you’re not talking about me behind my back,” Hannibal says and Q makes a startled sound. He had not even noticed Hannibal entering the room, much less Hannibal getting so close to them.

“Speak of the Devil and he shall appear,” Q grumbles, glaring at Hannibal half-heartedly. 

Hannibal smiles that smile he often uses for Q (the one that makes Q feel like he is a child whose whims are being indulged by someone far older and smarter, but isn’t that exactly what this is?). “I’m hardly the Devil.” 

“The Devil wishes he was as bad as you,” Will retorts and Q sees realisation dawn on Hannibal’s face (realisation that maybe Q and Will getting along is not the best of things, because Q’s tongue is sharp and Will’s is not the dullest either, and both of them like to occasionally push Hannibal to see how far is too far). 

The following two weeks are not exactly what Q would call relaxing, but they do make for a fairly good vacation. The food is good (of course it is, and Q smartly does not ask where the meat comes from), Hannibal’s library is extensive, and Will is slowly trying to understand magic (Q does not believe there is any need to understand, all one needs to do is accept, but to each their own method, every witch’s craft is different, some base their spells on logic, some go by feeling). 

Most of the time Q does not spend on reading everything and anything he can and taking notes, Q spends drinking wine and making potions (Hannibal’s pantry is well-stocked and Q is not about to let that opportunity pass by without using it, that and Q was banned from doing any dark rituals, so he had to settle for another form of entertainment). 

This leads to Q sitting on the kitchen counter next to the stove late one night, stirring a purple-coloured and bubbling concoction, an almost forgotten wine glass on the counter next to him.

“I do recall telling you how much I abhor people who sit on kitchen counters,” is what Hannibal says when he walks in on this. 

Q glances at Hannibal briefly, he is wearing those annoying expensive and equally annoyingly comfortable-looking pyjamas he always wears to bed and while he does look to be a bit irate, he looks nowhere close to wanting to cook Q (or any parts of him). 

“It’s comfortable here,” Q defends his current choice of seat and smiles a smile that is not quite apologetic.

“You’re being rude,” Hannibal warns (and Q is reminded that this is a dark, dark god he is dealing with, because the shadows in the room darken and Hannibal’s smile looks more like the baring of teeth before biting). 

The wise thing and the safe thing to do would be to apologise, but Q always wants to push, so he tilts his chin up and grins challengingly. Q says: “Bite me.”

Hannibal moves closer and Q waits patiently to see how this will play out, he very carefully does not move when Hannibal leans close to pick Q’s half-empty wine glass up from next to him on the counter. 

“Be very careful what you ask for,” Hannibal tells him after smelling and taking a small sip of Q’s wine (his expression tells Q that he does not mind, perhaps even likes, Q’s choice in wine, which is not too surprising, considering even Bedelia, who is a deity of wine, enjoys Q’s taste in wines). “Especially when you don’t know what you’re asking for.” 

“This would hardly be the first time you’ve taken a bite out of me,” Q points out and checks on his bubbling concoction before casually adding: “Turn the stove off for me, will you?” 

If Hannibal did not consider rolling eyes to be rude, Q wagers he would have rolled his eyes now, but as it is, Hannibal simply acquiesces and turns the stove off, even going as far as to put a lid on the pot filled with Q’s creation (a purple-ish swirling liquid that seems to have a life of its own, as it continues moving and swirling about even when it is no longer boiling). 

“Thanks,” Q says and smiles as he plucks the wine glass from Hannibal’s hand.

When Q tilts his head up to drink the last remainder of wine from his glass, Hannibal leans in and Q ends up with teeth that have ripped apart flesh (and probably will rip apart flesh until the world ceases to exist, or perhaps longer still) slightly uncomfortably close to his throat. 

Q feels Hannibal’s breath on his neck and cannot help but point out: “I could make a joke about how you’re a Count and so was Dracula.”

“I could take some offense to being compared to something as trivial as a vampire,” Hannibal replies and it is clearly a thinly veiled threat, but there are no teeth in Q’s throat yet. “Continuing your literary metaphor though, would that make you Jonathan Harker?”

“Locked in a castle, wolves outside in the woods,” Q thinks aloud. “Yes, I suppose it would.”

Q does not voice his question about what this would make Will. (One of Dracula’s brides? Or Mina Harker, perhaps? Or Lucy Westerna? Or, maybe, something more along the lines of Quincey Morris, who dies in the final battle against Dracula?)

The problem with Hannibal, Q reiterates when he feels Hannibal’s nose moving up his neck and behind his ear (briefly Q wonders if he smells any worse than usual because he forgot to shower today and spent the day bothering the creatures living in the woods), is that no one can tell what Hannibal’s endgame is. Q knows that he has more insight to whatever Hannibal is planning (and he is always planning, he never settles and exists in peace), which makes it all the more worrying that Q does not have the slightest clue as to what the next inevitable step in Hannibal’s plan is.

Q is distracted from his thoughts when he is pulled forward on the kitchen counter and he almost drops the wine glass he is still holding. (Oh right, he is in Hannibal Lecter’s kitchen, sitting on the counter, almost pressed flush to Hannibal who is close enough to bite through Q’s carotid artery.) 

“Not many people would feel comfortable enough to get distracted with my teeth at their throat,” is what Hannibal says when Q has found his way back to the situation at present. 

Q smiles and bares his throat even more. “I think we established that I am not most people the first time we met.” 

And if Q comes to breakfast with a ring of bruises and bitemarks around his neck the following day, the only reaction it gets is an eyebrow-raise from Will (and Q’s face subsequently turning red, followed by him ducking his head), well, that is just between him, Will, Hannibal, and the walls of a house made of godly magic.

And if, before leaving, Q quietly teaches Will how to bind gods (because neither Q nor Will know what part they play in Hannibal’s game, and Q figures that in any worst-case scenario it would be a good idea for Will to have some way to at least put a leash on Hannibal, if not stop him altogether), that is nobody’s business but his and Will’s (even though Q would assume that nothing escapes Hannibal in his own home). 

Two weeks later (his bag heavy with countless concoctions and a book or two he “borrowed”), Q returns to the train station. He smiles at the woman working at the kiosk (watches her eyes go wide with shock, she probably thought the only way he would ever be leaving would be in a body bag) and buys a water bottle before boarding the train. 

Q watches the woods turn into one big green-brown-dark blur outside his window and sighs, closing his eyes. All that remains now, Q thinks before he succumbs to slumber, is to wait and see, whether Hannibal brings highwater and hell, or if he will go about collecting debts in a quieter way (and there are debts to collect, Alana Bloom and Margot Verger owe him, Frederick Chilton owes his fame to Hannibal, and there are countless other things that happened that can be accredited to Hannibal’s existence; he will have all his old friends for dinner and the table will be overflowing with delicious food, some dark corner of Q’s mind whispers). 

Things go back to normal after that, or as normal as they ever were, for Q. He spends most of his time looking at computer screens at Q Branch and yelling at field agents doing stupid stunts on missions. He continues making unusually accurate weapons and sewing sigils into his agents’ suits. The only thing that changes is that now Q has to cleverly avoid answering questions regarding Hannibal Lecter and divert attention from the scarred bitemark on his forearm. 

And if Q gets a card from Argentina one day with the sentiment signed with an elaborate “H”, Q does not make a fuss. 

And if a pot of musk roses follows the card (Rosa moschata in Latin, a beautiful flower which in the language of flowers means “capricious beauty”, Q remembers and laughs), Q just takes it home and lets it grow, because he likes roses and he does also enjoy receiving gifts. 

And if there are more things Q does not mention (like bottles of excellent wine and occasional visits from both of the aptly dubbed Murder Husbands), well, no one needs to know and no one ever will, because Q can keep a secret, he already has many and will probably end up taking far more to his grave, when (or if) the time comes for finding out what that unknown country, where Hannibal’s domain lies, holds for Q.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I would love some feedback! I'd love to know what you think of this! 
> 
> I'd also want to know what you think of me making a series out of this (perhaps some more Bond, perhaps some more Moneypenny, perhaps some more other characters in other additions to this AU). Is that something you'd be interested in?

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, please, let me know if you liked it and/or would like me to write more of this weird AU.
> 
> Also, just tell me what you think of it, please. I live for feedback. Feedback feeds my soul.


End file.
